


Countin' Rounds

by kataraqui



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Affection, Angst, Anxious Bad Boys, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Don't Fear the Reaper Ending, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Gay V, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Night City is a Shithole but it's OUR shithole, Sappy, Streetkid V, The Sun Ending, blowjob, creative uses of Kerry's cyberware, fear of infidelity, food is love, johnny dies, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataraqui/pseuds/kataraqui
Summary: “Pencil me in, but no countin’ rounds.”It’s what V told him that day on the beach while Kovachek’s yacht burned and sank into the bay.Kerry had never been very good at following instructions though. So he counted.
Relationships: Kerry Eurodyne/Male V, Kerry Eurodyne/V
Comments: 76
Kudos: 374





	1. Eleven and Counting

**Author's Note:**

> A fic that's basically a conglomeration of my Kerry x V headcanons. All the good stuff that happens in between and after the events of canon. I need more of this game or I will perish. Hope you enjoy it!

“Pencil me in, but no countin’ rounds.” It’s what V told him that day on the beach while Kovachek’s yacht burned and sank into the bay. 

Kerry had never been very good at following instructions though. So he counted.

Round two. Kerry debates texting V in between dictating lyrics to his computer and drinking his sixth cup of coffee. Maybe it’s the caffeine jitters, or the way the song’s chord progression calls up images of lean arms draped across the back of a deck chair, of a soft, hazy smirk, of smoke curling in the air like the hand around his throat, but Kerry pulls out his phone. 

After sending the text, he wonders if it’s too soon for ‘I miss you,’ but then V texts back, ‘I miss you too’ and sets his heart aflutter. Like he’s a stupid teenager trading notes with his high school crush and not an octogenarian on his third synthetic liver. 

Couldn’t help but relish the feeling though. Even invites V over. Not like he expects to hear the roar of the Quadra pulling into his driveway three hours later. 

He greets V at the door with a confused, “The fuck?”

V grins that big, stupid, cocky grin and answers, “Said you missed me.” 

“Won’t hear me bitching—”

The rest is smothered in V’s mouth. He crowds Kerry back against the piano, hands hard on his hips, a thumb under the hem of his shirt. 

“Knew you wouldn’t be sleepin’ anyway,” V says into the kiss. “Too busy making music, right? Setting the world on fire.” The piano lets out a discordant shrill of notes as V plonks Kerry’s ass down on the keys, fingers working his belt buckle loose. “Figured I’d help.”

The music they make banging on the piano keys won’t earn any platinum albums, but it sure does make Kerry’s heart sing. 

Round three comes later. Much later. It’s the round where Kerry realizes that he’s counting moments, not just sex. Timestamps he’ll return to like a song returning to its chorus.

He gets a call where V’s voice comes through like grit. A call that leaves Kerry cold and more sleepless than usual. The conversation’s sweet. _That night...I had a good time,_ V tells him. Why does that sound like a goodbye? 

For hours, Kerry stews in the memory like it’s a BD he’s trapped in. Asking if V was okay. V lying that he’d be fine, that he wanted to hear their finished song. 

As if Kerry could write music while waiting on a follow-up call.

A holo does come through many hours later, but it isn’t from V. An icy dread fills Kerry’s chest. They’re calling about V. He just knows it.

“Mr. Eurodyne?”

“Whoever the hell you are, if you fuckin’ touch him I’ll—”

“Easy! Christ, V sure knows how to pick ‘em. Name’s Vik. I’m V’s ripper.” 

How a single sentence could make him flip between relief and terror, Kerry doesn’t know. “Is he okay?”

The long pause on the other end does nothing to reassure. Then Kerry thinks he can hear V’s gravelly voice giving the ripper shit until he finally hands over the phone. 

“Ker?” 

His voice rasps and bubbles like there’s blood in his lungs, and Kerry’s fist clenches, nails biting into palms. “V, you all right? Why’re you at a ripper?”

“He’s gone, Ker.” And without saying more, Kerry knows he means Johnny. “Please, come.” 

So Kerry finds himself driving into Watson, foot stamped hard on the accelerator, wondering what’s thrown V into a ripper’s chair, what has his street-roughened voice sounding so raw. 

It only occurs to him halfway there that Johnny’s fate hasn’t really hit him too. Maybe he’d died properly after that last reunion gig, or on the balcony when V’s hands framed Kerry’s face, when he realized Johnny wasn’t just gone but Kerry no longer needed to define himself by the Silverhand metric of glory at any cost. That he was no longer alone.

He follows the directions Vik gave at the end of the call, wandering through a hole-in-the-wall esoteric shop where a girl in a frayed sweater and fishnets leads him kindly into a ripper’s basement. The man looming over various screens with medical readouts looks more like a boxer than a doc. Everything—from his tattoos to his choice in jewellery—confirms that first impression. 

In the chair lies V. Kerry’s heart seizes so badly he thinks he might swallow it. Vik’s cleaned him up, but the livid bruises, the stitches where new skin replaces what wounds were irreparable…

It’s bad, but it’s not the end.

The thing that stands out most are those pink sneakers hanging off the end of the chair. There’s blood on them too, not all V’s. Kerry’s never seen them dirty. Little shit always took such good care of them—his favourites. Kerry never told him how charming he found it that the most dangerous merc in Night City tore up its streets in pink sneaks.

“He’s out now,” Vik tells him. “Which is for the best. He needs to rest up. Wanted you here though. Said you’d take him home.” 

The girl from the esoteric shop introduces herself as Misty and brings him a coffee while they wait for V to come around again. Kerry gets the sense from their questions and conversation—forced casual—that they’re sizing him up. Probably wondering why a washed up rockerboy who used to play with V’s personal brain parasite was the first one V called. Probably wondering if they need to give him the shovel talk. 

It’s not like Kerry was ever the kind of input you brought home to meet the folks. At least, not like this. He’s not making a great impression either, too distracted by V’s pale face and the blood on his shoes.

After a moment, he puts the coffee down and stands up, circling around to unlace the damn sneakers. As gently as he can, he pulls each off V’s feet and asks Vik if he can use the sink. 

Vik raises his eyebrows. “Have at it.”

With a little water and a dirty rag, Kerry does his best to wash out the stains. When he turns around, he almost misses the look exchanged between Vik and Misty. A confided, shared relief. 

Kerry doesn’t know whether he deserves it, but he counts it as round three.

Round four, Kerry takes V back to his mansion. V insists they sit on the sofa and marathon episodes of Watson Whore instead of going straight to bed. 

“Something normal. Just need something normal,” he says.

The show is a train wreck. It almost makes them both feel better about the wreck that V is, about the reality of his situation. 

Mikoshi hadn’t been enough. Removing the chip hadn’t been enough. Clock’s ticking. He’d asked Kerry not to count rounds, but now he’s counting days, hours, every second.

An ad for Buck-a-Slice plays, and V’s stomach rumbles, so they order pizza. V’s choice in toppings is repulsive—tuna, tofu and pineapple? 

“Never told me you were a psychopath, V.”

“Heh, Judy said something like that.”

“Judy?”

“You never met.” V wears a sad smile, almost wistful. “Guess she’s like my best friend? Her and Panam. But she left Night City a little while back. Not that I could blame her, but— Yeah. She thought I was a monster too for this.” He holds up his half-eaten pizza slice.

“You are,” Kerry agrees. “Any other disgusting food habits I should know about?”

V shrugs. “My favourite’s Mexican. There’s this place in Heywood I used to go all the time with Jackie. Best fuckin’ tamales in Night City.” He gets that wrinkle between his eyebrows anytime he mentions Jackie. Kerry recognizes it too well—the hole left behind by an irreplaceable friend. 

V shakes off the memories and says, “I’ll have to take you there sometime.”

He tilts sideways on the sofa, head coming to rest on Kerry’s shoulder. He returns his attention to the antics of Watson Whore. Kerry wasn’t paying enough attention. Something’s gone on involving a horse mask? 

V says, “And I thought I was a mess.”

Kerry’s lips quirk. “Can’t be number one at everything.” He puts an arm around V, carding a hand through the mess of his hair. 

Jackie, Judy, Panam, Viktor, Misty. The list of people sucked into V’s orbit seems to multiply the more Kerry gets to know him. He’s sure there are more. No surprise either. V burns so bright, not even the perpetual smog and acid rain of Night City can pollute his vigor. 

Right now, he reeks of copper and antiseptic, of the city. Can’t shower until he’s healed. Kerry still finds himself burying his nose in V’s hair though. Still breathing him in. 

V falls asleep like that. It’s a moment. It counts.

Round five comes when V can’t sleep for coughing so hard, and Kerry can’t sleep for the fear lodged in his throat. V sits up in bed, hacking out a lung, and all Kerry can say is,

“Can I get ya anything?”

V casts him a sidelong look. “Don’t. Not dyin’ yet.” 

He sounds so sure. At Kerry’s haunted look though, he shifts in bed. Presses a hand to Kerry’s chest. His mouth is hot and insistent in the dark.

When he pulls away it’s only to say, “Never felt more alive, actually.” 

He’s in Kerry’s arms, solid as ever. It’s enough to convince him that this isn’t over. V’s a fighter. Tough as nails. Too much grit for this city to stomach. 

It’s still reassuring that he has enough energy for round five _and_ six in the same night. 

Lucky number seven. V’s nearly recovered. Not enough for merc work, but enough to start contacting fixers in search of a cure for his predicament. Kerry drives to Heywood and back to get V’s favourite tamales. It’s worth it for the look V gives him. Two parts surprise, one part touched, and a dash of something charmed and adoring that Kerry isn’t used to. They eat out by the pool, shooting the shit like there isn’t a countdown to calamity going off in Kerry’s head.

“You gonna tell me your favourite foods so I can return the favour?” V jibes.

“Ha! Good Filipino food in Night City? I can dream.” 

V looks extremely disgruntled by this information. “Guess I gotta learn to cook.”

“Or, you know...next time I go back, you could come with.”

“To the Philippines?”

Kerry nods. “Why not?” 

V looks just as touched as he did when he saw the tamales. Maybe more. He hides his grin with another bite of food. 

“Never travelled much before,” he says. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” 

There’s such a strong emotional chord in V’s voice, and Kerry feels it echoed in the sudden tightness in his throat. It means a lot to them both, and neither want to admit how hard it is to think of future plans with the weight of V’s prognosis. Every hope hung on a teetering hook.

So Kerry changes the subject. “Weirdest gig you ever took. Go.”

“Well,” V says, a sly smile parting his lips, tongue tracing the insides of his teeth. “One time, this rockstar contracted me for the arson of some popstar’s musical toys—”

“Fuck you.” Kerry kicks both flipflops off into the pool, watching them float away. They both roll up their pants and dip their feet in. “Tell me one I don’t know. That being the weirdest one? I don’t buy it.”

“Okay, okay.” V leans back on his hands. The reflections of the pool catch on the silvery tracery of his implants. Like mercury veins amongst the flesh-and-blood kind. Kerry is sure he’s spent a gonk amount of time staring at those arms, those hands. V must know it. He stretches them out in front of himself. “Padre once had me klep a particular guitar from a particular superfan.”

“An old axe of Johnny’s, huh?”

“Nope,” V says with relish. “Yours. Reeaaally ground Johnny’s gears that this guy liked you better.”

“I bet.” It’s strange, hearing Johnny’s name from V’s lips and feeling...not much. Just a sense of relief that V’s voice doesn’t have that bitter edge, his smile that cruel twist. For all Kerry had once loved it, hated it, knowing it had to be one or the other? V or Johnny? Well…

Kerry leans closer. “That really the weirdest gig, or are you just sucking my dick without the mess?” 

“Without the mess?” One of V’s long-fingered hands traces Kerry’s jaw, runs a thumb along his lip, then skates down to rub between his legs. “Didn’t say nothing about no mess.” 

It’s not like Kerry’s new to this. Not like he doesn’t have years of quick handies or back-alley blowjobs behind him. But when it’s V, every time is like that first one on the yacht. Kerry’s cheeks heat like there’s a fire burning around them. Every tiny touch making his dick jump like he’s never had hands on him. Let alone lips, tongue. V leans down into his lap and makes him forget the fear of losing him, if only for a little while.

Round eight, V is restless waiting on intel from Rogue, so he says they gotta get out. That he knows just the spot. 

He’d always ribbed Kerry about the Rayfield. _When are ya gonna let me get behind the wheel, Ker?_ Kerry joked he’d impart it to V in his will. Another way of saying, _Over my dead body._ He liked teasing him, but he’d also seen the scratches on V’s Quadra. There was no buffing those out of his Rayfield with its custom paint job. 

So when Kerry takes V’s hand and adds his biometric data to his car, he expects V will be ecstatic. Kid-on-Christmas excited. Instead, he gets that tiny quotation mark between his brows, staring at his hand like he doesn’t recognize the data coming up on his HUD. 

“What’s the matter?” Kerry asks. “Thought you’d be psyched.”

“It’s—” V gives his head a shake. “Is this, like, some kinda last request?”

“What? You said you always wanted to drive it so I’m giving you the keys.”

“Yeah, and I might croak first now and never get the chance so you’re letting me? ‘Cause you know, Rogue’s on the case, and she says there’s a guy had his eye on something I can get, could help, so—”

“I know, V. It’s not that.”

“Then what, Ker? Let me bust it up a bit so you can ditch me? Don’t have to watch me rot then, right?”

The words aren’t just a slap to the face, they’re a bludgeon. Blunt force trauma. Kerry reels back and feels a familiar anger rise in his chest, but alongside it is something subtler. V’s eyes burn with a fear Kerry knows intimately. The fear of never having mattered. 

With tenderness foreign to them both, Kerry takes V’s hand. “That car’s my baby, V, but you’re...I mean—” He clears his throat. “Thought it’d make a nice date night out. My input driving my wheels. But I get it if my timing’s shit. Usually is.”

V searches his face a long moment. Then, when Kerry thinks he’ll just clear his throat and pretend the argument didn’t happen, he grabs the lapels of Kerry’s jacket instead and pulls him into a bruising kiss. A storming, aggressive, desperate thing that has Kerry stumbling back into the wall one second, then pushing V back the next. Out the door, over to the Rayfield.

Technically, it’s round eight, nine and ten. On the hood of the car, on the rooftop where V shows him his favourite view of the city, and then in the front seat while pulled over on the side of the highway home. 

Round eleven. Kerry’s started hanging around V’s new digs more often than not, even though V has to spend more time at the Afterlife than usual. 

One evening, he comes home, storming the place like it’s a Militech compound. He’s come back from an important meeting, voice like the bass beat of a night club thumping in Kerry’s chest as he stomps up the stairs.

“I fuckin’ did it, Ker! I got it! This is the gig that’s gonna save my fucking ass, and you’ll never guess where it’s taking me.” 

“You’re kidding. Where?” Before he can get an answer though, V’s arms are around him. Stronger than they’ve been in weeks. Spinning him around. Hands cupping Kerry’s cheeks. Almost like that time on the balcony at Dark Matter… Just like it, as their lips meet. 

“I’ll tell you everything tonight,” V says. Let’s celebrate. Order some food, drinks, we gotta toast to this one. It’s gonna be preem as all hell.”

Swept up in his enthusiasm, and more smitten than he can admit to himself, Kerry calls his personal assistant to organize something extravagant, indulgent. V’s excitement is infectious. He may cough up blood every morning in the shower when he thinks Kerry doesn’t notice, but the fire in him won’t go out, doesn’t even gutter. It almost sweetens the bitter question of just how dangerous this gig is going to be.

V tells him the detes. Shouldn’t be any surprise—hitting Crystal Palace. V never did anything in half measures. Kerry feels a well of panic and pride, and he calls to request more booze for their party. 

They get trashed as teens on prom night. Raiding Kerry’s closet, trying on half his wardrobe, all of which fits V well enough that Kerry starts thinking ‘fuck it, it’s _our_ wardrobe, I guess.’ They dance around the house to music blasted so loud even neighbouring mansions probably hear it. They skinny dip in the pool, see how many things sink to the bottom and how many they can retrieve in their compromised states. Kerry recruits his mechs for a piggyback ride race. The sight of V overtaking him, raising a hand as if holding a crop, grinning over his shoulder while the mech bounds along the UV lit driveway with V on its back—Kerry knows he’ll never forget that image. He laughs until his ribs feel bruised. 

When their legs can no longer hold them, they collapse into pool chairs with a bottle of champagne. Kerry’s barely poured a single glass before V’s on top of him, mouth wet against Kerry’s throat, tongue tracing the line where chrome meets skin. It pries a hungry moan from him, hands shaking as he holds aloft the bottle and the half-full flute.

“Not thirsty for the champagne anymore?” Kerry groans as V grinds against his thigh.

“Got a different kind of thirst right now,” V replies. He leans back, the weight of him over Kerry’s hips making the musician’s head swim. With one hand, V plucks the champagne flute from him and tips it to Kerry’s lips. It should be a mess—he has no right to be coordinated at the moment, but Kerry sips from the proffered glass like he’s a Grecian hero being hand-fed grapes. The exquisite fizzle of bubbles on his tongue. The decadence of V’s finger sliding along his lips and into his mouth for Kerry to suck. The way the champagne tastes slightly salty on V’s neck where he pours some of the bottle over them. Tattooed roses under Kerry’s tongue and teeth.

It’s not often Kerry would ever use the words ‘make love.’ He’s too old, lived too long in Night City where fairy tales were of the Grimm Brother’s variety, and no pumpkin coaches would whisk them off to a happily ever after. 

V holds him down, fingers linked, and he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t bury his head in Kerry’s shoulder. Looks into his eyes the whole time.

Makin’ love. Shit. What else can he call it?


	2. Limbo Between Twelve and Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got longer than expected, and now it's gonna be three chapters! Hope you enjoy this one!

The next morning, Kerry wakes to the brush of V’s stubble against his cheek, the gravel of his voice tickling his ear.

“Rise and shine.”

Kerry can’t help the smile. He opens his eyes to V laying on his side, smirking back at him. He’s a mess. Steely hair sticking up like straw, creases from the pillowcase printed into his cheek, still smelling like champagne, sweat, and sex. Even so, he’s the most beautiful sight to wake up to. With a gentle hand, V brushes the backs of his knuckles against Kerry’s cheek.

“Gonna have a quick shower,” he says, letting Kerry close his eyes and settle back into the pillow for a few minutes of extra sleep.

It starts to sink in once the comforting weight of V next to him is gone. Really, they have no right to be cheerful. The incoming hangover is going to need a stim pack to overcome. In a couple hours, V will delta off to the fucking moon or whatever. Kerry will stick around to feed Nibbles and to record more tracks for his album. 

From the bathroom, he hears V coughing. Awake now anyway, Kerry gets up to join him in the shower, kicking his boxers off on the way there. 

V stands under the spray, one hand braced against the wall. The ram’s skull tattoo stretches over the taut muscles of his back, tapered waist leading the eye down to his cocked hips. Kerry allows himself a second to admire the view before sneaking up behind V and spanking his ass. 

It does the trick. V flashes a cheeky grin, his earlier coughing fit forgotten. 

After, there isn’t much time to talk. Kerry chucks his phone over the balcony instead of answering the call with his new manager. If they only have minutes, he’ll take every one. He’d planned on keeping his tone light. The last thing he wants is to send V away thinking Kerry doubts his ability. It’s not that, it’s just, well...Crystal Palace. A suspicious contact that only goes by Mr. Blue Eyes. It’s not just any gig, this. 

He doesn’t mean for it to come out, but it does. “I don’t want to lose you, V. There, I said it… I don’t want to lose you.”

It should be Kerry supporting V, not the other way around, but he finds it hard to regret the admission with V’s arms around him. 

He promises he’ll be back. Kerry lets himself believe it.

Too soon, he watches the doors close behind his input, the AV lifting off, soft gusts of wind in its wake. It rises into the early morning light, the glare off its metallic chassis making him squint. It hits him then. Like a fist smothering his heart mid-beat. 

The last time he’d seen Johnny, staring out of the open side of a helicopter, flicking a cigarette into the night, that burning ember like the world’s saddest firework returning to Earth. Now V vanishes much the same, the AV shrinking until it’s just a speck of dust amongst the ash and smog of Night City. 

What if it’s the last time Kerry sees him too?

Feeling hollowed out and haunted, he goes back inside.

Round twelve. Kerry calls V but hits his voicemail. He’s anxious as hell. Fingers shaking too badly to pick away at the new melody inspired by round eleven. He doesn’t want to impart his nerves to V, so he just babbles something nonsensical about how much he likes being his input, and how he’d like to just chill with some popcorn or whatever. It’s downright domestic. And embarrassing. He almost regrets it after hanging up. 

Fuck. What if V never comes back? 

He’s lying in bed, sleepless, the sheets smelling of V, when his holo rings. An image of V’s neck tattoo comes up on his HUD. Kerry sits bolt upright in his haste to answer.

“V?”

“Hey, Ker.” His voice comes through soft. 

Suppressing all the panic and anxiety of the past couple days, Kerry keeps his tone light. “Hey. How’s outer space?”

“Quiet. Creeps me out. I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, can’t sleep neither. Take it you can’t hear Night City’s traffic from orbit?”

“Naw. Nothing.” A long pause. “Why I called you, actually. To hear your voice.” 

Fuckin’ hell, if that doesn’t make Kerry’s stomach do some wild gymnastics. “Can do you one better, I think.” Getting up out of bed, Kerry heads for the balcony, standing out by the rail and putting V on speaker so the honk of car horns and ambient hubbub comes through. “Can you hear that?” 

A sigh issues from the other end of the call. He can almost hear V smiling. “That’s good. Not better than your voice though.”

“Sap. Think it’ll help you sleep before the heist? I can just chill here.”

“Not much time left to. Setting off in about an hour.”

“Oh.” Kerry’s stomach flips again, but for entirely different reasons. “Nervous?” 

This pause is so much longer than the last. Kerry almost thinks V won’t answer. When he does, it’s in a voice so quiet the city almost drowns it out. “Terrified.”

Kerry takes a deep breath. He can’t let on how nervous he is too. Needs to help V keep his head in the game. This is the shot they can’t miss, so Kerry racks his skull sponge for a solution. “Wanna hear what I’d do to soothe my nerves before a show?”

“Drink something stiff?”

“Ha! Dickhead. Yeah, sometimes, but that could go one of two ways. Could make it worse. No, if it was a place with a dressing room—not that a lot of those first dives did, but you know—I’d get naked and sing in there. Pretend I was living the bad dream of getting up on stage with no pants, you know?”

V’s laugh is rich and smooth. “Thinking about you naked definitely helps.”

“Happy to be of service.”

“And that worked? The nude dancing?”

“Yeah. Good for warming up too.” 

“I’m a shit singer.” 

“Well,” Kerry says, sucking on his lower lip. “You got me for that.”

A soft laugh on the other end. “Sing for me then, maestro.”

Kerry had been piecing together lyrics for another song over the past couple days, so he clears his throat and starts singing the verses he remembers. It’s imperfect, as unfinished songs usually are. Crude and unsculpted. But the feeling’s there. No denying that.

He really hopes, one day, V can come to one of his shows.

When he finishes the song, there’s quiet on the other end. From V’s even breaths, Kerry wonders if he’s lulled him to sleep. 

“I really like that one, Ker,” V says finally. A deep breath that shakes on the way out. “Fuck, you do me a lot of good.” 

Kerry is too stunned to answer. For all his bloody reputation, V manages to say the kind of romantic shit Kerry would normally poke fun at if he saw it on TV. He gets Kerry thinking and saying all sorts of cheesy crap too. Their text message logs would have gotten Kerry kicked out of Samurai on principle.

“Thanks for that. Feelin’ a bit better,” V says.

“Anytime.” 

“I should get going though. Just wanted to tell you something else first.”

“Yeah?”

“My name. It’s Vincent, by the way.”

Kerry’s heart kicks him in the ribs. Shit, this better not be some kind of goodbye. “Why’re you telling me now?”

“Just thought it was time you knew. Not asking you to call me that all the time. Kinda like the way ‘V’ sounds when you say it. But for special occasions...”

“Vincent.” Kerry says. He wets his lips. This isn’t a goodbye. Can’t be. “You come back to me, all right?” 

“Promise.” 

They’d be up to round thirteen now. Kerry can’t help but feel like he’s jinxed it all. Thirteen’s meant to be unlucky, right? The day following their call, Kerry’s at the studio listening to demos when an intern rushes into the room to tell his producer, “Come now. You’re gonna want to see this.”

Kerry follows them into an adjoining room where the television broadcasts 54 News.

“It’s on every station,” says the intern, while Kerry stops breathing.

The screen displays an image of the Crystal Palace, its twisting discs eerily still, the windows gone dark, like blind eyes staring sightless into space. 

_“We’re coming to you live with this breaking story that’s unfolding as we speak,”_ says the presenter. _“As of ten minutes ago, we’ve lost contact with the Crystal Palace. This comes after a minor security breach last week. As of now, we don’t know if the sudden blackout at Crystal Palace is connected. It appears that every individual aboard has lost their connection to the Net, implying that, not just the station, but the implants of everyone aboard have been affected. Several satellites in orbit have damaged or lost signals. The closest functioning satellite has provided this image of the Crystal Palace.”_

Despair threatens to swallow him whole. Kerry turns away from the others, already pinging V on the holo. 

In the background, the news presenter continues, “ _As yet, experts can only speculate on what sort of attack could lead to such a wide-scale blackout, but a breach of the Blackwall has not been ruled out, and Netwatch representatives have recommended that anyone jacked in exercise extreme caution until more information is available.”_

Kerry’s call drops. No message that the number is no longer operational. Just goes dead _._

He calls a different number.

It takes several tries, but finally Rogue picks up. Kerry abandons the crew to speak out in the hallway.

“Kerry, I really don’t have time—”

“What the hell is happening?”

“I’d be looking into it right now if you weren’t clogging up my airwaves asking me gonk questions.”

“Don’t FUCK with me, Rogue. What the hell kinda gig was this?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, and besides—”

“I swear to Christ, if you don’t give me a straight answer, so help me. Who is that Mr. Blue Eyes fucker? What’s he done with V?”

“Kerry!” Rogue’s brash shout stops him for only a second, but long enough for her to continue. “I’m looking into it. It might surprise you to know that I don’t have instant intel on every single Night Citizen this city shits out. Especially now your input’s replaced me as top fixer in this joint. Most gigs like this reek, but it’s not as if your boy toy had much choice, did he?”

She’s right, but that only serves to piss him off further. “I don’t give a flying fuck, Rogue, find him or I’m coming down to Afterlife—”

“Don’t threaten me, Kerry. We both know you’re full of shit. If I knew anything, you’d know too. No news is good news for now. I’m hanging up now. Don’t call me. I’ll call you. ”

The holo goes dead. Left without an outlet, Kerry’s panic and fury seem to boil into something explosive contained within the fragile frame of his ribs, each one cracking under the pressure. 

No news isn’t good news. It’s Schrodinger’s news. V is Schrodinger’s cat. Alive or dead? The not knowing is awful. That pull between hope and heartbreak. 

He has to go back into the studio to record, and the only silver lining to the whole fucked up scenario is that he can pour all that anguished longing into the music. 

He doesn’t hear from Rogue for another week. He calls, but she blocks his number without explanation. It’s excruciating, but he watches the news for any mention of a solo mercenary. There’s none, but rescue teams sent to Crystal Palace confirm Netwatch’s worst fears. 

The Blackwall is breached. An AI war is on their doorstep. Something to do with the attack on Arasaka weakening security, a daemon being released into Crystal Palace’s systems which opened a backdoor for the AI’s to come through. Maybe he should give a fuck about all that, but there’s only one name he listens for, and they’re not saying it. 

_Fuck, V, what did you do_? 

He doesn’t want to think about what could have happened. Doesn’t want to think at all. That dark void his mind could descend into with ease—he didn’t want to return to it. For fifty years he’d succumbed to the sort of thoughts that led to…

He shouldn’t be pouring whiskey into a tumblr, but he can’t do anything, and he doesn’t want to think, so he drowns the demons threatening to return from the grave he only freshly dug for them.

When Rogue finally calls, it’s with some alarming intel about the possibility Mr. Blue Eyes was an AI proxy, and nothing at all about V. The detes on Blue Eyes are hazy at best, and besides which, Kerry doesn’t give a shit who or what the man was. Only what he did with V. All Rogue can say for certain is that V was meant to rendezvous with Blue Eyes after the gig at designated coordinates, with the strong implication he knew communication would be impossible. 

Rogue sounds as frustrated as Kerry feels. “Hate to admit it, but the little punk grew on me too,” she says. “I liked him.”

“ _Like_ him,” Kerry corrects her. “He’s not gone.”

That night, Kerry catapults out of bed with his heart thundering. Tangled in sweaty sheets and still reeling from the nightmare imprinted on the back of his eyelids, he nearly cracks his skull on the headboard. In an aborted motion, he reaches for V, only to find the bed still empty next to him. Thrown from one nightmare straight into another. 

A trilling bleat pulls his focus from the after-images of his dream to the present. Nibbles appears from under the bed, skinny rat’s tail vibrating in an inquisitive greeting. She’d likely fled when Kerry shouted himself awake. The little goblin leaps up into Kerry’s lap, kneading the sheets with her knobbly paws. With a shaking hand, he strokes her back. She arches up with a purr, putting her paws on his chest. 

Nibbles always preferred V. Ignored Kerry, for the most part. Now it seems they’d bonded over the mutual misery of missing him. 

“He’ll be back,” Kerry tells the creature. He’s telling himself the same, but the fears have set in. Made themselves at home. 

He’d better come back.

A month passes agonizingly slow. Rogue picks up bits and pieces of intel on what went down. Nothing on what became of the merc monopolizing Kerry’s dwindling faculties. A rescue team got Crystal Palace back in working order, but the Net was still a warzone. Netwatch had their work cut out for them, and runners who lived and breathed in cyberspace suddenly avoided the Net all-together, or mysteriously changed identity, or simply breathed no more.

Kerry cancels recording sessions, meet-ups with Us Cracks, attending only what little he can manage. He writes what music he can, but every note comes like pulling teeth. It’s not the effortless inspiration of that night on the yacht. All that lark about the best art requires suffering? Bullshit. Kerry always knew it too.

What he manages to write and record, he does on the days where he’s convinced himself that one day, V will be back. And when he walks through that door, Kerry wants to have an album that can do him proud. 

But the days where he can convince himself of that possibility grow fewer and farther between. 

Six weeks. Six whole weeks. After a long day of listening to demos, Kerry collapses into the sofa at V’s apartment. He practically lives there now. Under the pretense of looking after Nibbles, but he’d be lying to himself if the presence of V there weren’t a factor.

As he does, he hears a distant meow, slightly muffled. Brow wrinkling, he gets up to investigate, following the soft yowls to the door into V’s weapons stash. The door hisses open and Nibbles bolts out, heading straight for her bowl of kibble. Little shit probably locked herself in while he was gone.

Now the door’s open though, he finds himself walking inside. He never came in here much. No need. A box of diving gear lies on the floor, a dreamcatcher hanging on the wall where an array of rare weapons is displayed. V once named them all, how he’d got them, most from his closest chooms. Archangel had been among them, the revolver a reminder of the devouring despondence and depression that plagued Kerry before V woke him up. As if from a coma. 

The spot where Archangel once hung is empty. V took it with him. 

It raises a lump in his throat that he can’t quite swallow down. _I’ll even protect you from yourself._ Still keeping that promise somehow, taking the gun that could have ended Kerry’s life once upon a time. Sure, the other guns were there, but it’s like that empty spot is a sign. 

And a comfort. It’s a good fuckin’ gun. Especially after V pimped it out like he had. It’s nice to know that, in some small way, Kerry’s protecting V too.

After two months, the word hope rings painful and hollow in his ears. Nothing new from Rogue, the city nosediving into a war with AI, and all the while reality dawns. Surely, by this point, V would have been able to make contact with them. Reassure his chooms that he wasn’t gone. After this much time, he should be back to Earth, laughing over a fucking mojito on a beach, explaining how he pulled it all off. Not...whatever this limbo was. 

The label’s pushing to cut his new album and unleash it on the world, but Kerry resists. There’s another song he wants on there, though the tune is amorphous and elusive still. Waiting on a hook, on an elusive lyric. Feels like he has the threads but nothing that weaves it all together. Pieces.

Then, falling asleep with the guitar still in his lap, Kerry hears something. A distant hum, getting louder. It shouldn’t stick out at all, the noise of the city a constant backdrop. It’s just another AV cruising overhead a little too close. 

Closer. 

Kerry sits up as the humming grows shrill and specks of gravel peck at the windows. Dumping his guitar on the couch, he shoots up and toward the glass sliding doors. A Delamain AV hovers over the landing pad, kicking up dust. Heart in his throat, running out onto the balcony, down the steps, just as the AV doors slide open and a painfully familiar silhouette jumps out.

V looks exhausted, hair longer and not as clean-shaven, but...vibrant somehow. A bag of popcorn and a packet of olives in his hands. A nervous smile on his face. And alive. Somehow, alive.

“Hey, Ker,” he says. Just that.

A snarl of emotion rises in Kerry’s throat, making his cyberware hum. “You fucking asshole.” He always defaults to anger. Anger is easy. Familiar. There’s so much else but he chokes on it. “Two months. Two fucking months!” V takes a step and Kerry finds himself running down to meet him, drawn inexorably together. “You didn’t call! Didn’t—” 

They don’t so much fall into one another’s arms as collide. V drops the popcorn and olives. Kerry’s hands form fists, one pounding V in the chest. He knows V couldn’t call. Busted implants. Busted Crystal Palace. “I thought you—”

V doesn’t flinch, doesn’t absorb or deflect Kerry’s anger, just accepts it. Kerry wrote a song about that. About how he’s like dark matter. 

“Came back though,” says V. “Promised I would.”

All that fury, all those ghosts hunting Kerry, it all just falls away. V’s arms wind tight around his back, and every rigid muscle in Kerry comes loose. V’s mouth presses hard over his own, and the last bit of his resistance melts. He finds himself kissing back open-mouthed, raising both hands to hold V there because he isn’t done. _Not done with you yet._ All those things Kerry felt for the past two months, the things besides anger, the things he couldn’t express out loud… He hopes V can feel ‘em in the biting, stinging lock of their lips.

When he pulls away it’s only by a scant inch. A question hangs between them. One Kerry fears the answer to, but now V is here he just pulls the trigger.

“How long do we got?”

V smirks. “As long as you want me for.”

The breath whooshes out of Kerry’s lungs. One part a sigh of relief, two parts punch to the sternum leaving him winded. Not just alive _for now_ . Alive _for the foreseeable future_. Alive and crowding into Kerry’s arms, face pressed into the crook of Kerry’s neck and breathing in deep. The air’s a bit chilly and he shivers.

“Come inside,” says Kerry.

“I brought your olives. And the popcorn.”

He hadn’t really wanted olives. He’d wanted V back. Now he has him. “I’ll make us martinis then,” he says.

Into Kerry’s neck, V answers, “Fuck, I missed you.”

“Nibbles missed you too.”

“Not you though.”

“Nah.” That single syllable joke comes out with no conviction. Kerry feels the lips against his neck smile. “Come inside,” he says again. “Tell me where the fuck you’ve been.” 

Maybe number thirteen isn’t so unlucky. It’s the round where V came back. 

For good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the chapter with the most angst, but next chapter will be all the fluff these two deserve!!! Just a warning that the next chapter might mean a change of rating to E for this (I'm not sure, 'cause I've only written bits of it :P). Thanks so much for reading. I thrive on kudos and comments so if you're inclined to leave one, much love!


	3. Fourteen Through Eighteen

The story goes like most of V’s do. Stretching credulity, pushing the boundaries of what’s possible, involving equal degrees of success and outright disaster. 

They sit curled up on the sofa, Kerry’s arm around V’s shoulders, V’s legs over Kerry’s lap, radio on in the background. Nibbles tries to squash herself between them, rubbing her wrinkly head against V’s chest while he scratches her behind the ears.

V winces a little. At first, Kerry thinks he’s injured, but then he pulls Archangel from the back of his jeans and sets it on the table. Kerry’s lip twitches.

“Saved my life a few times,” V says.

“Glad to be of service.” As if he had anything to do with it.

“Thing’s a canon. Does more than a service.”

Kerry waves it off. “Quit stalling. Tell me where you’ve been, kid.” 

V does. It involves a lot of techno-babble Kerry barely understands—Christ, he really is getting old. The long and the short of it was that scientists at Biodyne had some revolutionary nanites that could repair the damage to V’s body, but weren’t liable to part with it since it was still in the trial phase. The information had been stored on servers at Crystal Palace. Servers which had been compromised in V’s raid at Arasaka. 

His job had been twofold. Klep Arasaka’s relic data for Mr. Blue Eyes, then klep the nanite data to save his own life. 

Only nothing had gone exactly to plan. The daemon Blue Eyes had instructed V to use hadn’t just opened a back door for data theft. It had opened a back door for rogue AI’s too. Once breached, Blue Eyes ghosted, leaving V stranded with the tech that could save his life provided he could escape Crystal Palace.

Which he did. He grabbed a shuttle and set it to cruise in a deadzone while the nanites did their work. He doesn’t say, but Kerry can infer from the rare hitch in V’s breathing—it had been a close thing. Few hours more and maybe…

Not worth thinking about.

Kerry leans against V’s forehead, lips brushing the scar from Dexter Deshawn’s bullet.

If he wanted to wax philosophical, he’d puzzle over the implications of the V sitting in front of him being an engram in the recoded body of the real deal. Alt had digitized V’s soul, and now his body was a rewrite of a rewrite. Maybe some people would wonder about the integrity of a person whose psyche came from bytes on a chip, whose body bore little genetic resemblance to the original. 

But of the things Kerry agonized about, this wasn’t one. It hadn’t been too hard to tell that the Silverhand inhabiting V’s body was Johnny all-over. Did any of it matter if V looked and sounded and felt like the same V Kerry had known? 

After that, V explains it was just a case of getting home. With most of his implant communications fried, that meant no navigational systems. No Net. No way home except to limp back towards their lonely planet, hijack a convoy with working gear, and navigate himself from there. 

Like that on its own was no big deal. 

“You ever do anything small?” Kerry says.

“Done plenty of small-time gigs too,” V mutters. His brow wrinkles and he picks at the thoroughly chipped remains of his nail polish. 

Kerry’s brow furrows in a mirror of V’s. “You all right?”

V sighs, tilting his head back against Kerry’s shoulder. “Don’t it bother you that I started a goddamn war just to save my own sorry hide?”

Kerry actually laughs. At V’s sullen expression though, he clears his throat. “You serious? Blamin’ yourself for that?”

“Who else?”

“Uh, Blue Eyes? Netwatch? The fuckin’ fates and their twisted sense of humour?” 

V doesn’t look convinced. The man’s a miracle, Kerry thinks. Born and bred in the city that devours your humanity, turns you into one of its insatiable monsters, and here’s V, still caring. Still trying to do good in a world where the word held no power. 

So Kerry continues. “Blackwall was a ticking time bomb. If not you, someone woulda taken up the gauntlet. Plus…” He gives a helpless shrug, staring up at the ceiling because the look V’s giving him is making him feel a lot of things. “No one better than you to fight it.”

“Thought you’d want me to hang up my hat.”

“Yep. Still do.” With one hand, he pulls the bullet necklace from where it’s hidden in V’s shirt. “But I get it.”

“Really? Not still worried about losing me?”

“Pft, don’t throw that shit in my face. Yeah, I worry, but…” Kerry blows a raspberry. “You ain’t retirement age. I’m well past it, and look at me. Making a new album.” 

V brightens, sitting upright. “How is the album coming?”

“Nearly done. Just one more song.” 

V claps his hands together. “Give me a show then.” 

He gets up, heading for the kitchen. He doesn’t make it there. One second, waltzing toward the counter, carefree. The next, legs giving out, stumbling and wracked by coughs. Kerry catches him before his head connects with the countertop. Though V tries to wipe the blood on his trousers without Kerry noticing, he doesn’t manage it.

“Christ, V, thought you said you were better!”

“Eh, it’s a work in progress. Nanites are still rewriting my body. Be good as new soon, just give it some—” He tries to steady himself with a hand on the counter, but another coughing fit has him slumping heavily onto Kerry’s shoulder instead.

“Should take you to a hospital.”

“I’m fine—”

Kerry almost loses his temper. Almost. “Don’t be a gonk.” 

“I’ll go see Vik tomorrow. Promise.” His features pinch at the look Kerry levels him with. “I really am fine.”

“Let’s get you to bed.”

V winces, regarding his mismatched, dirty clothes. “Could use a shower first.” 

Kerry huffs. “Let me. C’mere.”

V is full of chrome, far heavier than he looks. They still manage their way to the bathroom where Kerry helps him undress one painstaking sleeve at a time.

At the sight of his input naked, Kerry freezes up.

V had his share of scars. A slash from an Arasaka katana across his ribs. A split eyebrow. A few bullet holes, like stars in a constellation across his torso. A burnt line from a monowire on his back. And of course, the fatal one at his temple courtesy of Mr. Deshawn. Kerry had asked about them all, aware that it would conjure up all sorts of nightmares, but he asked anyway. Not like he didn’t understand the realities of V’s job already. Not like he didn’t find the scars kinda sexy, even if they made the fear for V’s life more vivid. 

Still. Kerry knew all those scars. Counted ‘em, like the rounds that had come to mean so much.

There are more now. Some shiny, pink and raw. Others barely healed and stapled together haphazardly. Bruises, like flowers in purple and blue, bloom around every injury. If it wasn’t for his subdermal armor, Kerry doesn’t know if V’d still be standing. Kicking off his own clothes, Kerry turns the water up to temperature, then gets under V’s arm and helps him sit down in the shower.

“I can stand.”

“Just chill. Let me.”

V looks reluctant. “I made it here, didn’t I?” 

In the moment, Kerry doesn’t have time to wonder why V wants to die on this stubborn hill, of all hills. He just says, “I’m not asking ya,” in a tone that brooks no further argument, and V finally relents. 

Kerry settles down behind him under the hot spray. He lathers the shampoo into V’s hair and watches the water run rust-coloured into the drain. He’s careful of V’s injuries when soaping down his skin. In another world, another time, perhaps this would be sensual, but right now V’s muscles are taut, jaw set, eyes cast down at the water sluicing through the dirt and dried blood on his skin, and it’s nothing like that. It’s…

Vulnerable. 

It occurs to him only as V leans back a scant inch into Kerry’s chest that, maybe, just maybe, he’s never had anyone take care of him. Not like this. Vik stitching him closed and chewing his ear off for getting hurt. Mama Welles berating him for not calling enough. That’s the closest thing, and V always shook them off. Insisted he was fine. Snarling at anyone who got too close. Trying to look dangerous because needing help and looking it were a death sentence in this city. 

Though he hasn’t lowered his guard completely, it’s enough that he lets Kerry pat him gently dry with a towel. Enough that he allows Kerry to kiss the bump of his spine at the base of his neck. Enough that he leans on Kerry’s shoulder while putting on a pair of boxers. It’s enough that he doesn’t snap like a wounded dog might when presented with hands that had once represented a beating instead of help.

It’s enough for round fourteen.

\------

Round fifteen. Kerry wakes to the smell of acetone and V reapplying his nail polish. Sat up in bed with a tissue under his spread fingers, hair askew from sleeping on it damp. The smile creeps up on Kerry, along with the cosy heat in his heart. 

Voice still sleep rough, he says, “I see ya got your priorities ironed out. Manicure before breakfast.” 

“Was waiting on you for breakfast,” V retorts. He finishes off the pinky, watching the gold and blue melt together. “Could do yours too.” 

Kerry snorts. “All right. Why not?”

He sits up, and V takes his hands, holding the fingers steady as he dips the brush. With his head bent, V gets to work applying the gold and blue separately, the colours coalescing in swirls like an oil slick. Watching him, something buoyant and treacherous rises in Kerry’s throat. 

Last night, V told him about a heist Morgan Blackhand would have struggled to pull off. A once-in-a-lifetime feat of extraordinary talent, courage and grit. He’d seen the evidence of how much it cost swirling down his own shower drain. 

And this morning, the same man bends over Kerry’s hand and, with fastidious care, applies a coat of paint to his nails. Domestic. Mundane. No screech of shredded tires or exploding data forts, just this microcosm of the man behind those things. The part no one else gets to see. 

Kerry’s chest feels fit to burst with things unsaid, and it’s only a matter of time before he says them. Already started with the songs, but he’s never put the words to V directly. Too afraid he’ll scare him off. That it’ll be too much too soon.

It _is_ too much for Kerry. Wrong city for this. But he can’t help it. 

V sits up straight, declaring, “Messed up the thumb a little, but—”

Kerry kisses him quiet. 

\------

Each round seems to come rapid fire after V’s return. Kerry knows he should quit counting. That the reason he started in the first place is born of a deep-seated fear that V will vanish out of his life as quickly as he came, and that maybe if he reaches some arbitrary number, maybe then Kerry can put those fears to rest. 

V came back, but Kerry still finds himself counting.

They go to Vik’s clinic together. The relief on the ripper’s face is quickly replaced with something stern and berating. Misty hugs V a bit too hard, and at the merc’s flinch, she herds him into the clinic. While Vik snarls over the state of V’s implants and injuries, Misty suggests his aura could use some rose quartz. A study in contrast, the both of them concerned for their friend in their own way. V protests as usual, but there’s an edge of relief in his smile.

That smile turns into a pout when Vik prescribes meds and strict instructions to rest and avoid all strenuous activity. 

On their way out, Misty gives Kerry the faintest smile and says, “We’re really glad he’s got you to look after him.”

V looks embarrassed. “Don’t need looking after,” he mutters, but Misty pretends not to hear. 

All the same, V slips his hand into Kerry’s as they make their way out through the back alley. Interlaced fingers and matching nail polish.

Into the street, flashing lights leave them temporarily blind. Kerry recognizes the frantic clicks of a camera shutter, but V doesn’t. His confused, wrinkled brow is accompanied by a sudden tension in the set of his shoulders. Getting ready to face a threat until his eyes fall on the paparazzi standing near Kerry’s car. 

“Shoulda taken a Delamain,” Kerry grouses. 

Ignoring the way his heart’s doing a tap dance in his chest, Kerry brushes past the paparazzi and opens the door for V to climb in before making his way to the driver’s side. He thanks the Rayfield engineers for camera-feed windows and total privacy because, though he’d become well accustomed to the odd camera mob, V certainly hasn’t, and—

Well, their relationship wasn’t exactly public.

“Fuck, sorry about that,” Kerry mutters as he pulls out onto the main road.

V grins. “How do ya know it’s you they were hopin’ to snap for the screamsheets? Last I checked you weren’t the only legend in this car.”

Kerry laughs. “Ya got me there.”

“I’m kidding. They don’t tend to bother fixers and mercs. I just hope they got my good side.”

Kerry clears his throat. The question almost sticks there, but he manages it. “Doesn’t bother you if people find out about us?” 

“Nope.” V grins, tongue tracing the edge of his teeth before he says the next thing. “It’s about time this city knows you’re mine.”

 _Mine._ It’s a word Kerry once used in a text message. Why had it always been so much easier to express what he felt in writing, in music, than in speech? He’d worried, at the time, that it was too soon. 

Fuck. Nothing anyone had ever said made him feel so much like he belonged...

That’s round sixteen, and it’s a miracle it doesn’t give Kerry a heart attack that sends them crashing off a bridge into the river.

\------

Round seventeen. V thoroughly tests Kerry’s resolve. Though given strict orders to rest and allow his wounds to properly heal, his new implants to properly settle, V has other things in mind.

The first test comes the moment they get home from Vik’s. Not a few steps inside and Kerry finds himself flat on his back on the sofa with V bearing down on top of him, kissing him like he’s starving. Hands under clothes and in his hair. Kerry’s half-hard immediately, and it’s the second miracle of the day that he manages to stop V.

“Nuh uh, Vik said you gotta rest.”

“Fuck what Vik said. I’m fine.” 

It takes a lot of convincing, and mostly Kerry feels like he’s convincing himself because… Shit. It’s been a while. But he’s not risking V’s health. Or Vik’s bad side.

V is incorrigible though. The next morning, while Kerry’s looking through his closet for something to wear to the studio, V sidles up behind him. The warm press of his body mapped to every contour of Kerry’s back sends shivers skating up his spine. The hard length of V against his ass is an aching reminder of what could be happening if Kerry gave in. V’s lips against his earlobe whisper, “Good morning.”

Kerry slips out of his arms with a chastizing look, but it’s a narrow miss.

“Can’t believe you’ve made me the responsible one,” Kerry gripes. It’s murdering his self-image.

Doesn’t discourage V though. If anything, the opposite. It becomes a game of cat and mouse. An enjoyable sort of torture. Kerry has to admit he loves it...being lusted after, the thing they both want held just out of reach. They could find ways to slake their thirst that didn’t involve too much exertion on V’s part, but both doubt they could take it slow and soft after months apart.

It was never just about sex with them, but the sex had been a _good_ part. 

One day, V promises a night of popcorn and catching up on the tv shows he missed while in space. A quiet date night. Kerry doesn’t want to admit how much it means that V remembers his voicemails. These little admissions that he craves something simple, that he’s not always that rebel with a penchant for burning things.

He kisses V when he finally gets home. Just a peck, but V doesn’t let him pull away, strong hands reeling him in so their hips are slotted achingly together. Those same hands sliding down the back of Kerry’s jeans.

It takes a feat of willpower to pull back enough to say, “You’re a menace. How’s that popcorn coming?”

Kerry busies himself making martinis while V throws the popcorn in the microwave. They settle into a reclining armchair—a piece of furniture bought especially for cuddling, far as Kerry’s concerned, because it only has _just_ enough room for the two of them to sit together comfortably. With Nibbles in V’s lap and the bowl of popcorn in Kerry’s, they watch reruns of Little Big Corporats, talking shit about each participant in turn. 

“Gina’s my favourite,” V says. 

Kerry snorts. “I hate to break it to you, but Marcine is gonna make EezyBeef of Gina. Gina’s too nice, she’s not cut out for corpo life.”

V grumps. “Naw. I think Gina’s got her number. I’ll bet you a hundred eddies.”

“Why so sure?”

V tilts his head on Kerry’s shoulder. “Because the good ones gotta win sometimes, that’s why.”

Kerry cringes internally. These are reruns, and he knows how it all ends for Gina. Knew before he watched it though. Part of him thinks V knows too. In the corpo world, nice and good were synonyms for weak. Hell, V had said something along those lines himself when he talked about growing up in Night City. 

When Gina gets fired in the finale, V throws a handful of popcorn kernels at the television in retaliation. “Gina, no! I believed in you!”

Nibbles mews in annoyance and prances off towards the kitchen in search of her food bowl. Kerry chuckles, fingers threading through V’s. “Sorry, babe.”

A sardonic note in his gruff voice, V says, “I’m inconsolable. Distraught. If only _someone_ could distract me.” 

V’s hand squeezes his, and then he’s being drawn into a kiss. Warm and full. Every one of his senses light up with V. The spice of his cologne. The firm touch of his hand. His taste, as V slides his tongue into Kerry’s mouth and sucks on his lower lip. It wakes every nerve in Kerry’s body. Stirs things in him that should stay dormant for now. V is like a live wire, electrifying everything he touches, and _fuck_ it’s been so long. Every attempt on V’s part to get in his pants is equal parts endearing and irresistible. Kerry’s want swiftly becomes need.

As V’s hand makes its wayward journey south along the planes of Kerry’s abs, a path of heat in its wake, it takes a herculean effort for Kerry to grab that hand and stop its trajectory. 

V’s eyes open, a playful scrunch to his brows. 

“You still got a week to recover,” Kerry reminds him.

“I’ll be gentle,” V shoots back.

He moves in to kiss Kerry again, but Kerry stops him. “When have you ever been gentle?” 

It’s probably not the right thing to say. His teasing tone makes V grin with pride. 

“I’m a fast learner.” 

Kerry wets his lips. “Think you can learn how to be a pillow princess?” he jokes.

V’s expression pinches in a scowl then smooths out again. “Doesn’t sound like my style.”

Kerry sits up, setting the bowl of popcorn on the table. As if reading his mind, V grabs his arm and yanks him back down into the chair. His thumbs rub dizzying circles against Kerry’s skin. A lust-rough laugh bubbles up in Kerry’s throat. “If this is you going easy—”

V huffs. “Show me, then.” 

Kerry should say ‘no.’ Maybe, if V hadn’t been so dogged all week, he’d still have the resolve left over. 

But he doesn’t. So he pops open a few of the buttons on V’s shirt and leans in to run his tongue along the dip at V’s clavicle. Making his way down V’s torso, following the snaking path of his serpent tattoo, leaving kisses, nips. He bares more skin one button at a time. Forcing himself to make it a lazy exploration rather than the plundering fuck they crave.

And it takes a lot of resolve on V’s part not to rush things, that much he can tell, but he does an admirable job.

By the time Kerry reaches his navel, the merc’s breaths stutter and hold. He isn’t used to lying back and letting someone else take care of him. Not when it came to tending his wounds, and not when it comes to this either. 

Now he thinks about it, Kerry can’t recall a time when V ever let him suck him off to completion. Always interrupting things to take charge. Always too soon for Kerry’s taste. He didn’t get to be this good at sucking cock by sitting on his ass. 

He’s run out of room on the armchair so he gets down on his knees and drags V’s hips closer by the belt. In a quick jerk he opens the belt buckle and unzips V’s pants. 

Kerry risks looking up. V regards him with a heady blend of desire and vulnerability. He’s gorgeous. Hazel eyes lidded. Cheeks flushed. Lip caught between his teeth. There’s no doubt that he likes the look of Kerry settling between his thighs, both legs thrown over Kerry’s shoulders. He smells of soap and musk, cock leaning heavy against Kerry’s cheek as he presses a wet kiss to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

V tilts his head back and groans. 

It’s so tempting to take him all at once. If only to see V lose his cool completely, but Kerry promised no overexertion, and somehow he thinks V will find a way to be overly physical if things escalate quick. So instead, Kerry takes only the head between his lips and swirls his tongue in a wet circle around the ridge. 

V goes dead quiet for a few seconds before a guttural moan bursts from his lungs. He jerks his head up again to watch as Kerry takes a little more into his mouth. Bobbing his head, taking it deeper each time, watching the muscles of his input’s abdomen shiver. 

It’s more than a little intoxicating. V’s thighs around his head. V’s voice pitched low and shaky as he says Kerry’s name. V’s cock, thick and weighty on his tongue, salty with a slick of precum. Kerry relaxes his throat around the intrusion of it as he buries his nose in the thatch of hair at V’s pubic bone.

There were more advantages to his cyberware than helping him sing on key. He hums in satisfaction at the act of taking V’s whole cock in his throat, and the resulting vibration catches V off guard.

He lets out a gasping shout. “Fuck, Ker!” 

Suddenly, V’s fists are in Kerry’s hair, his thighs opening wider, hips twitching in an aborted thrust. Fuck, if V wasn’t under strict instruction not to overextend himself, Kerry would let him fuck his throat right then. Instead, he pins V’s hips to the chair, sucking him off in earnest and letting V set the rhythm with his hands twined in Kerry’s hair.

V’s no musician, but there’s something to the melody of his moans, the artistic arch of tendons in his neck as he twists his head to the side and gasps into the armchair, the impressionist light catching the sharp profile of his nose, that reminds Kerry of music. Or the way music makes him feel.

Kerry moans around V’s cock and that’s all it takes. Salty cum coats his tongue. 

He comes up gasping for air. V looks at Kerry and doesn’t stop looking. Breathing hard and fingers tracing soothing patterns through his hair.

At a few tugs on his shirt collar, Kerry climbs back into the chair, stroking a lazy hand down V’s chest as it heaves with each breath. 

V says, still panting. “Fuck, you’re good at that.”

Kerry smirks. He nuzzles into the crook of V’s neck and whispers against the tattoo there. “I’ve had a few more years to practice than you.” 

V hums in a contented affirmation. He always seemed a bit...turned on by the reminder of their disparate ages. His hand reaches between them to cup the tent in Kerry’s trousers. 

“Then I better get some practice in if I want to catch up,” V says into Kerry’s hair.

“Not yet. Pillow princess, remember?”

V pulls away a fraction, rolling his eyes. “Promise I won’t strain anything,” he says.

And with his hand sliding into Kerry’s pants, his lips on Kerry’s throat, it’s impossible to say ‘no.’

Fuck, is it impossible to say ‘no.’ 

\------

V’s been weird. Skulking off to make calls, giving dismissive answers to Kerry’s questions, even rushing out the door at a quarter past midnight for some errand he won’t give any detes on. 

Normally, it’d set off alarm bells. Kerry’s no stranger to the telltale signs of infidelity. Hell, he’d walked in on an input inflagrate with some rando once, and he hadn’t even the energy to be shocked because he’d seen it coming. It makes his guts twist up a bit to think that V could do that to him though. It’s not like they had a convo about exclusivity, but he’d figured it went without saying. Given he slept at V’s pad more often than not, given all that they’d shared…

He trusts V, so he asks about the fucked up behaviour. At first, V deflects with an airy, “Not your biz, Ker,” but apparently something in Kerry’s reaction makes him rethink it. The gonk didn’t even realize how it all looked. “Wait a sec, you think I’m cheatin’?”

“Nah. I think you’re up to some shit that looks like cheating though.”

V flashes that annoyingly charming grin. “And if I say it’s a surprise and you’re being a nosy asshole?”

Kerry feels lighter already. “Right. Just being paranoid. Carry on.”

He almost forgets about the surprise until one night when he crawls into bed—half-comatose from a meet with his new manager—and V pulls a BD rig out of the bedside drawer. 

“Ta-daaah,” he sings. 

“What’s this?”

“Hardcore porn. It’s your surprise, genius. Judy helped edit the thing.” 

Kerry raises an eyebrow. What the hell did V scroll that he wants Kerry to see? “What kinda thing?”

“Just put it on, babe.”

He’s known V long enough now to see he’s excited. So Kerry settles the rig on snug and leans back into the pillows while the lights flash.

The bedroom falls away, and Kerry finds himself seated behind the wheel of V’s Quadra. It’s pulled up outside Chombatta’s, and the taste of their Jamaican espresso still sits thick on his tongue, hot in his stomach. Familiar to Kerry, but it’s new for V. He watches, with the sense of a time traveller experiencing a paradoxical anomaly, as his own leather-clad ass stomps across the parking lot to get back in that junkbox he’d used while tracking down the Us Cracks van. V watches him go. His heart thunks once against his ribs, and he gives his head a shake, fires up the engine, and takes off just as it begins to rain.

The BD pauses. His holo chimes as V connects to speak to him. “Remember this?” 

Kerry scoffs. “‘Course I do. Didn’t know you were scrollin’ though?”

“Was testing some new tech for Judy. She wanted something simple, just scroll while I’m driving, she said. So I did.” 

“What’s the surprise?”

“Remember you said you wanted to just chill, listen to some tunes? Thought I’d share one of my favourites. You know...something that reminds me of you.”

The BD resumes, and V pulls onto the highway. Rain comes down, skating in rivulets up the windscreen as he picks up speed. His heart is still beating heavy in his chest, and not from the coffee or the blown up van. Kerry feels V’s skittering anxiety as if it’s his own. Fingers tapping on the wheel, he reaches for the dash and turns on the radio. After a moment of chatter about the weather, a familiar melody starts. Breathy, whispering vocals. Soft melody.

“Your fave song is by Lizzy fucking Wizzy?” Kerry laughs, incredulous.

“It’s not the—”

“Delicate Weapon? This reminds you of me? It’s about some toxic relationship, V. What’re you trying to say?” 

“Hey! You’re the one always saying how music’s up to interpretation.”

“Lyrics are literally ‘this is the worst day of my life.’”

“Please, just...wait.”

Kerry might have ribbed on him some more. Tease him a bit. There’s a quiet edge to V’s voice though, like crushed velvet. He’s anxious and hopeful. Wants Kerry to see something in this BD, something important.

They’re crossing the bridge into the city, holo ads and neon lights an aquatic blur through the rain and the windscreen. It’s not Kerry’s style, the music, but the tune wends through V’s ribs, squeezing his heart, still fluttering in his chest like a bird. 

They’d already burnt the van and run, cooled off at Chombatta’s. His heart should be a steady sixty beats per minute. Hell, he’d barely flinched throwing that grenade. Another explosion, another Tuesday in the life of a merc. So what’s got his blood pumping now, with the quiet music curling sensuous and thrilling through him and the rain playing a percussion alongside?

Butterflies. He’s got _butterflies_. 

Then an all-too familiar voice invades his head, a voice Kerry hasn’t heard in fifty years, at least not like this, like he’s there. The greater shock to the system is when V glances at the passenger side seat and sees Johnny. Really sees him. Scuffed, bruised, still wearing that military grade vest.

Johnny says, “Fuck, of all the pieces of ass you’ve met, the one you got googoo eyes for is my old choom’s?”

Kerry must be smiling in the real world. It’s so odd, odder even than Johnny showing up in a stranger’s body after breaking into his house, reefing away on one of Kerry’s guitars like he never left. This Johnny feels like a ghost, and why is that so comforting? 

“Fuck you, Johnny,” V grumbles.

Just like a ghost, Johnny disappears, leaving V alone in the car with his frantic heartbeat and the melody casting an ephemeral air over the city. Even the smoggy, pissy stench of Watson washes away a little in the rain. It’s an ethereal snapshot in time, a sweet piece of how it all began.

He understands now why V wanted to share this. Why it’s so important to him.

V pulls into the parking garage of his apartment complex, the rain cutting out along with the song as V turns off the engine. The BD ends. 

Kerry pulls the gear off his head, smoothing a hand through his hair. His heart’s still pattering away like V’s was, the butterflies lingering. He looks over at V, who avoids his eye at first. When he meets Kerry’s gaze, there’s something terrible in his face. A look Kerry’s only seen once before, when V was spread out on Vik’s surgical chair looking more like a cadaver than his fiery, stubborn-ass input.

He remembers that night from the other side of it. Driving away, he’d replayed V’s words over and over in his head. _You’ve got a rocker’s soul. I can tell. And rocker’s balls._ From Watson to North Oak, both their hearts hitting parallel beats, a synced up melody neither realized they were sharing. 

Fuck, if it doesn’t have Kerry already reaching for a new tune, its chord progression a yearning, hopeful thing. He reaches for V’s cheek too. V tucks into his palm, holds his hand there, and lets out a long-held breath. 

Kerry says, “Yeah. Me too.” 

And he wants to say more. Needs to tell him with the proper words. That memory is a confession, and Kerry owes V the same honesty, but when he tries all he can do is summon the choking fear that if he reaches out to name this thing between them that it will make it more real. Something valuable, precious. The sort of thing Night City hungered to steal from anyone who dared claim more than their due.

V breaks the still by scooching over in bed, winding an arm around Kerry’s waist. In his embrace, it’s easy to tuck under V’s chin and say nothing. Easier to curse his own cowardice than admit that V is so much more than his input.

It’s round eighteen all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up so much longer than expected, to the point where I realized it's gonna just have to be two chapters instead of one. I keep getting more ideas and adding them in so at this point we'll just have to (hope? pray?) see if the next chapter is the last. I hope you've enjoyed this bit of fluff and smut, next chapter will be more of the same :P


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